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As someone who has lived in the same place my whole life, I’ve realized that I often don’t recognize the amazing things about my own city. In the Midwest, our idea of fun is driving around, running to gas stations, and even going to the grocery store. The weather is never consistent so plans often fall through, and we barely notice the wildlife that surrounds us unless it’s a suicidal deer running across the road or the annoying chirping of birds at daybreak. These are the things I’m used to, and I never thought I would ever see them differently. The last thing I expected when I had my first family vacation was gaining a new perspective on life. In June of 2017, my family took a road trip to a small town right outside of Tampa, Florida. The subtle changes to the landscape that rushed by the car’s window were the first things I noticed. The license plates I was used to seeing disappeared, and even traffic patterns began to shift into something vaguely unfamiliar. Strange business names popped up on advertisements dotted along the highway, and soon, nothing was recognizable. I had stepped into an alternate reality. Florida was a completely new environment—oceans and manatees instead of lakes and catfish, bathing suits and tank tops in place of jeans and hoodies. Everything looked so beautiful. I was mesmerized, and part of me never wanted to leave. Staying in a townhouse felt like living in a mansion. I had a lovely view of the ocean from the window of my room on the third floor, and there was a wooden dock outside the garage with crabs clinging to its pilings. A five minute walk later and I was at the beach, splashing in frothing surf and soaking my feet in warm sand. For one week, I saw the wonders of the seaside. I visited amusement parks, zoos, aquariums, beaches, and shopped on boardwalks with my loving, crazy family. In the end, however, it wasn’t these things that had the greatest impact on me. It was the last few days of Florida that were the most eye-opening. I had awoken to an enchanting sunrise and its shimmering reflection on the ocean’s surface. From the window of my room, I could see a strange lump floating in the water near the dock. My family and I went out to get a better look. Realization had dawned on us: it was a young manatee that had recently passed. Hours later, we could hear the parents wailing in the distance as they waded through the water. I mourned with them for the creature, and as the sun began to set, I saw dolphins leaping into the glorious shades of yellows, oranges, and blues of the sky. In that moment, I learned that things happen every day―not always to you, but to someone―and the world keeps spinning anyway. The following night, my parents summoned me to the beach. I was nervous at the insistence in their voices, almost dreading what I was going to see. The darkening sky was dotted with stars, but despite the shadows that had settled over the beach, it wasn’t hard to find my parents. They pointed at something that looked like a rock, but as I moved closer, I started to see details come into shape. Awe filled my heart—it was an endangered loggerhead turtle nesting right in front of us. Seeing such a beautiful, rare creature was a gift, and it taught me that though bad things happen, we need the bad to know what the good is. The trip was over in the blink of an eye. As we drove the highways back towards the Midwest, I realized that the once-familiar sights didn’t look the same anymore. It was all new again, and so was my appreciation for life. That simple journey from the beautiful sunflower fields of Kansas to the salty sunburns on Florida’s beaches changed me in ways I will never forget.